


aurora

by ballantine



Series: noble consuls of rome [8]
Category: Ancient History RPF, Rome (TV 2005)
Genre: Break Up, Greece, M/M, POV Alternating, Sports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:48:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25576831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballantine/pseuds/ballantine
Summary: The news that the consul Mark Antony was no longer residing in the house of the Junii spread rapidly and generated a furious relay of consideration. It was thought anyone who was anyone ought to have an opinion; some had had one at the ready for months, while others had to scramble.As the city gathered to enjoy the circus games of the Ludi Romani, these opinions were trotted out with all the ostentation and pride of any of the chariot teams on the grounds below.
Relationships: Mark Antony/Marcus Junius Brutus the Younger
Series: noble consuls of rome [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1730350
Comments: 18
Kudos: 26





	1. Rome, during the consulship of Antony and Brutus

**Author's Note:**

> Aurora as in the goddess responsible for extinguishing the stars at the end of the night; also there was that business with her lover where she forgot to give him eternal youth when she got him immortality.
> 
> a headsup: the format of the Greece chapters might not appear so great with a screenreader. for that matter, they might not work on a computer, idk, my formatting skills aren't much

The news that the consul Mark Antony was no longer residing in the house of the Junii spread rapidly and generated a furious relay of consideration. It was thought anyone who was anyone ought to have an opinion; some had had one at the ready for months, while others had to scramble.

As the city gathered to enjoy the circus games of the _Ludi Romani_ , these opinions were trotted out with all the ostentation and pride of any of the chariot teams on the grounds below.

  
  


“My faith in the wise leadership of our consul Brutus remains intact. As everyone knows, I have always regarded the man's conduct and principles as unimpeachable. I rejoice that he has seen fit to finally throw over the one anchor weighing down his reputation and look forward to a productive relationship going forward. The Senate shall lead us through these turbulent waters, with Brutus at the helm.”

So said Marcus Tullius Cicero, widely regarded as the voice of the Senate.

  
  


“I'm relieved, tremendously relieved. A few senators had been after me to say something – kind of defeats the power-sharing purpose of having two consuls if they're, well – look, I am just very relieved. It promised to be a very awkward conversation.”

So said Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, Pontifex Maximus

  
  


“For every Roman who deplores a bully, this is a happy day. Good riddance.”

So said Gaius Cassius Longinus, proconsul and close friend of Brutus.

  
  


“The rumors exaggerate. I have it on intimate authority that the consuls remain in perfect accord. Why would Brutus renounce his colleague so shortly after he settled the unrest in Hispania? He has never been more popular with the people. The idea is patently absurd.”

So said Lucius Munatius Plancus, proconsul and associate of Antony.

  
  


“It's obvious. He left because he knew his place was with his men. The veteran settlements have been stalled for months, and he wasn't having it, was he? He's the loyal sort. He looks after his own. Just wait.”

So said Titus Pullo, area man and ex-convict.

  
  


“We are at a turning point in our history. Surely you have all felt it. There is a growing disrespect for the Republic, for our sacred traditions and laws. You might even have found some of this doubt in yourself. I put to you, it is not your fault! It is a crisis of _fides_. We see it in the clash of personalities that currently reign over our city, these petty disagreements that make us all party to sacrilege. We have always believed that it was Rome's divine destiny to rule and rule well. But how can we carry this out when our leaders fail to rule even themselves?”

So said Gaius Octavian Caesar, young flamen of Divus Julius.

  
  


The consul Brutus was busy overseeing the games and would not speak directly on the matter, calling it a private affair and not pertinent to the running of the state.

Few were willing to bring the subject up to the consul Antony, fearing his unpredictable temper. He passed the races spectating from the side of the track, boisterously shouting encouragement and abuse depending on the team, and appeared completely untroubled by any gossip.


	2. Athens, during the consulship of Piso and Gabinius

ANTONY

| 

| 

BRUTUS  
  
---|---|---  
  
When did it change?

| 

| 

At some point, it changes. He thinks he has given the relationship its due attention, but the turning point still escapes him.  
  
When did comfort become restriction?

| 

| 

Jupiter knows neither of them are the easiest man to live with. But he assumed becoming used to someone meant that no longer mattered: you make an adjustment and then it works.

None of the poems ever say anything about there being more than one adjustment.  
  
He remembers:

| 

|   
  
Antony walks into the bedroom dragging a packed bag and is brought up short by the sight of Brutus at his desk. He looks narrowly at him, taking in the furrows in his brow, the depth of his frown of concentration. He has no head for numbers but this survey is one he could calculate even if he was blind drunk. Brutus is In The Middle Of Something.

“No,” he says, “This isn't happening now. We're going. We were supposed to leave an hour ago.”

“Hm? What – oh.” Brutus glances up and his hand belatedly shoots out, palm spread like he might hide the parchment. He retracts it a second later. “This is nothing.”

Antony nods. “Good, so you can leave it for later.”

This, of course, is met with a pained hesitation. Brutus is positively _wounded_ by the idea of abandoning his scribbles: scribbles he is more likely than not going to consign bitterly to a fire in as soon as a day, declaring them worthless and a waste of ink.

“Well – look, it'll only just take a moment,” says Brutus. Antony shakes his head and starts around the desk. “No – Antony, I'm quite serious. It will only just – oh, don't you even _think_ about—!”

He ignores the protest, nimbly evades the flailing arms, and hauls Brutus over his shoulder. It's not easy, for the man is as tall as he and in possession of spiteful elbows.

He turns in place, and Brutus kicks his legs like he's trying to swim – then he stops.

After two steps, Antony feels a slight pressure on the middle of his back. Brutus is attempting to write while slung upside down over his shoulder.

“Are you serious?” he asks him.

The scratching pauses and Brutus says, in his most haughty tone, “I won't take judgment from the likes of you. These are the lengths you have driven me to.”

“I guess I'll call this a compromise,” says Antony, and staggers from the room with his precious burden.

| 

|   
  
And that was good. He remembers feeling good. Confident in them and the honesty of their moments together.

| 

|   
  
| 

|   
  
His behavior does not change, so that cannot be the problem. He is the same man he has been since they met, with the same vices and flaws.

| 

| 

When did amusement become irritation?  
  
They are still young yet, and he does not see why actions that are one day accepted – on the occasions they are not actively abetted – should the next be deemed inappropriate.

| 

| 

When did tolerance give way to impatience?  
  
| 

| 

He remembers:  
  
| 

| 

Brutus walks into the bedroom carrying a scroll and is brought up short by the sight of Antony on the bed. He takes in the careless sprawl of his limbs, the crumpled chiton.

“I don't suppose you bathed before rolling around the bed linens?” he asks. He tosses the scroll at his desk as he bypasses it and crawls onto the bed.

Antony shifts onto his back and slits his eyes open to look at him. “I'm as a clean a Vestal standing in the sacred spring.”

Brutus props himself up on an elbow. “Oh, is that where you were this past week? Explains the length of your absence.”

Antony's mouth twitches. “Is that your way of saying you missed me, dear Brutus?”

I always miss you, he thinks. Antony's hair is a dark tangle against the sheets. Sometimes when he is gone, Brutus orders the bed left alone, so he may look over and see the imprint on the second pillow.

“Are you very tired?” he asks him and, without waiting for an answer, reaches down to slip a hand between his legs. His fingers quest back behind his testes.

Antony laughs a little. He spreads his thighs, ever accommodating. “What, for that? Never.”

Despite his words, he is too boneless to rise up onto his knees, and so Brutus takes him on his back: a position where neither of them can hide from the other.  
  
| 

| 

And that was good. He remembers feeling good. Confident in them and the eternity of their future.  
  
But at last he recognizes

| 

| 

But at last he admits to himself  
  
the beckoning freedom for what it is. He has known this freedom before.

Diogenes was homeless and declared himself free. Antony is no Diogenes, but he'll take the short reprieve.

| 

| 

he is tired. He is ground down to nothing.

The worst is the promise of relief. He could cut out his own heart for betraying him with this relief.  
  
| 

|   
  
He searches the other man's eyes now for a hint of that old warmth. He searches in vain.


	3. Rome, during the consulship of Antony and Brutus

“I think that axle very nearly reached us,” said Vorenus.

They were in the very first row of the circus. A three-team collision on the turn had sent pieces of chariots flying into the air at high velocity. Antony found it very distracting, trying to focus on the remainder of the race with people swarming the track: pulling bodies away, putting swords to screaming horses' necks.

“I knew a man once,” said Pullo on Antony's other side, “he was missing his left hand. He claimed he lost it here, watching the races – said one of the wheel scythes flew loose during a crash and,” Pullo whistled and made a swift chopping motion, “no more jerking off.”

They all contemplated this fate.

“Couldn't he just use his other hand?” said Antony after a moment.

“Yeah, but – it's just not the same, is it.”

“That's a ridiculous story,” decided Vorenus. “I imagine he was a thief and seeking to explain away his shame.”

“Oh, probably,” came the easy reply. “He _was_ cudgeled to death by a military tribunal a few months later.”

Antony, standing between this conversation, reached to grab the wineskin. He shook it and then tossed it back down in disgust.

“We're out of wine,” he said. “How are we already out of wine, again?”

“Brother Pullo is an ox with four stomachs. He can put a lot away.” Vorenus said this without looking away from the race. He was one of those sporting fans who watched the races with a grim sort of concentration and would brook no distraction.

Antony glanced over and, always forgetting the size of the man, then up. “Perhaps I should I pierce one of those stomachs and fill my cup.”

“No need, sir,” said Pullo cheerfully, reaching to the foot of his bench. “I bought two last time.”

He hefted it and cocked an eyebrow. “This one is also almost empty.”

Before the man could respond to defend himself, a roar went up along the circus, starting from the finish line and coursing the length of the track. Antony paused in pouring the last of the wine and craned his neck. “Eh? Who won?”

“Green,” said Vorenus. He shifted back from the track wall, quiet satisfaction filling his face. It was such an unusual look for the man, he was for a moment almost unrecognizable.

“ _Green_. Whatever,” said Antony. He drank. “You know what they say the team owner feeds those horses? Have you heard that?”

“Slander,” said Vorenus dismissively. Then, straightening up: “Sir.”

“Be almost an hour until the next race, I expect,” said Pullo. “They're going to be ages cleaning up that crash.”

Antony hesitated, his cup lowering. His eyes swept the track, and he figured Pullo was right. He glanced at the stands to their back. “In that case, I'm going to go find more wine. And – food, maybe. You two want anything?”

“Eating's bad luck,” said Vorenus doggedly. Such was the man's commitment to his team, Antony foresaw he was going to end the day being carried home by his friend.

He started away.

But Pullo was much less interested in superstition. He leaned past Vorenus and called after him: “If they have any more of those – what are they, the dates wrapped in the smoked strips of venison? Some of those.” Vorenus drove an elbow into his gut. “ _Sir!_ Some date snacks, please, sir!”

Antony lifted a hand in acknowledgment and proceeded through the crowd.  
  


* * *

  
He'd just finished wading through the desperate mob in the public latrines when he was accosted.

“Antony,” said Cassius, pushing off a wall and approaching.

There were people milling all around, so he couldn't follow his instincts and brush him off. He turned and met him in the middle of the walkway.

Cassius said, “It's been some time since we talked. I haven't had a chance to personally welcome you back to the city.”

“Oh,” said Antony. “But – we talked at that party last week, surely.”

“Not directly, no.”

“At the play, then. What was it, three nights ago?”

He'd give him this: Cassius was never one to give him false smiles, and he didn't just then. “You mean – when I was talking to the actress and you swooped in to whisk her off? I'd hardly rate that a quality moment.”

“You're not sore, are you?” said Antony, folding a hand over his shoulder. “It's only, I had promised I would introduce her to some friends, and the night was getting on.”

“How's the commute these days,” inquired Cassius, instead of answering. “It must be strange, living out of a tent and riding into the city every day like a common merchant.”

He said, “It's really not so bad. I think people underestimate how similar Rome is to the war trail. You rise, take some exercise, direct your men.” He flicked a look up and down the other man's body. “Deal with any problems that have arisen in the night.”

People flowed around them, chattering. A welcome breeze blew in through the open sides of the walkway, clearing some of the stench of the latrines. They gazed at one another thoughtfully.

“Well,” said Cassius eventually. “I should be getting back to my seat – I have a private box, and it is a fair walk from here. The next race will be starting soon.”

“Who are you supporting?” asked Antony, forgetting himself for a moment. Such was the unique virtue of sport: it called out the common element in even the worst enemies. At least until one of the teams lost, anyway.

Cassius hesitated, surprise flickering over his face. “White. I've been partial to them for a couple years now. They run their teams with strategy, and the owners treat their drivers well.” He cleared his throat and glanced around. “Ah – and you?”

“Oh, me? Can't be much of a surprise.” He patted his bright toga. “Red for life.”


	4. Athens, during the consulship of Piso and Gabinius

ANTONY

| 

| 

BRUTUS  
  
---|---|---  
  
Never has a man worked so hard to soften his own nature through the study of philosophy and poetry, only to return to the realization, over and over, that it is futile.

| 

| 

Rarely is there a Roman so helpless to resist his own inclination to devotion. Pragmatic self-interest, necessary self-defense – these are concepts utterly incompatible with the man's heart.  
  
Brutus despairs of it, but it is secretly Antony's favorite thing about him.

| 

| 

Antony is resigned to it, but it is secretly Brutus's favorite thing about him.  
  
Hard men will never surprise you.

| 

| 

Loyal men will always surprise you.  
  
| 

|   
  
| 

| 

He looks in all the other usual places, and then he goes to Aristocrates's house.

The Greek folds his arms and leans in the open doorway. “If you're not careful, you two are going to become one of _those_ pairs. You know, the kind that ruin every dinner party they are invited to and make all their friends choose sides?”

“I think we both know whose side you're on,” says Brutus, voice clipped. “Where is he?”

He sighs and makes a slight face, unhappy, at his feet. “I really prefer not to get involved.”

“Good. Don't. Just tell me where he is.”

“Gods, listen to him,” says Antony from inside the house.

Aristocrates raises his eyes to the heavens and steps aside to let Brutus through.

His companion is laid out on the floor beside a couch, a damp rag over his face. He said, “Were you anyone else, Brutus, such an uncompromising attitude would be unforgivable. Listen to you snapping at our good friend.”  
  
After twenty minutes, Brutus is still pacing and the tirade shows no hint of slowing.

“For a month – a _month_ , I have talked of little else but his visit. Why would you disappear precisely when you stand to gain the most from an introduction to the man?”

He is badly hungover for the third day in a row and has no patience for this conversation. “You know why. You merely refuse to hear it."

“Remind me.”

He lifts the rag from over his eyes and grimaces at him. “I won't have your reputation ruined because of me.”

| 

|   
  
He knows one has very little control over what others do with one's reputation.

| 

| 

What nonsense. The only person who can ruin his reputation is himself.  
  
| 

| 

“You're lying,” he says flatly. “After all this time, our – association is hardly a secret. And you've never shown any sign that you cared before. What's the real reason?”  
  
“I already owe you so much,” he says quietly.

| 

| 

(Owe me?)  
  
He sighs and passes a hand over his head and tries to scrape his thoughts together in some semblance of order. “If you arrange for an introduction with Caesar, and it by some miracle turned into some kind of offer – that'd be it, forever. Don't you see? We'd both always know you were the one who made me.”

He is making a complete hash out of it, he can tell from the oddly blank look on the other man's face.

| 

|   
  
| 

| 

“Owe me?”  
  
He just wants to be able to offer something. He wants for once to not show up empty-handed.

| 

| 

Does a wife owe a husband anything but love? Does a friend owe anything but their presence?  
  
| 

|   
  
“Seems like you two have a lot to discuss,” says Aristocrates from the corner. “Perhaps you could do it elsewhere? Somewhere – not my house?”


	5. Rome, during the consulship of Antony and Brutus

He did not return directly to Vorenus and Pullo. He never intended to; he had an itch he wished to scratch. The races always did get his blood going.

The private consular box was positioned for the best view in the circus and lavishly appointed with cushioned benches along a railing overlooking the track. Deeper into the box were full-size tables and couches, and on one of these sprawled Brutus. He was fast asleep.

Antony set his (now full) wineskins on the bench and gave a cursory look down at the track. The teams were still milling around in a semi-organized horde. There was time yet.

“Step outside,” he said to the slave waiting by the door, “And if anyone tries to enter this box, you are to turn them away.”

After this was done, he pulled off his toga and tossed it down on the floor beside Brutus's couch. He then knelt upon it. He took a moment to study his face, which was so rarely proffered up for leisured viewing.

Even in sleep, the lines around his mouth did not fade completely. It was the mark of Janus on him: the balance of beginnings and endings, the symbolic representation of the duality of man – a man who could simultaneously be deeply beloved and also a complete raging cunt.

Antony shook his head at himself. Without further ado, he flipped up the hem of Brutus's tunic and bent forward.

He had barely coaxed the cock to full length and had it leaking on his tongue when the man's abdominal muscles suddenly tensed. A hand fisted tightly in his hair.

Brutus gritted out above him, “You are – the – _absolute_ —”

He hummed a bright greeting and Brutus cursed, tossing his own head back.

Antony took this as permission to keep going, and set about his mission with great diligence and care. The next time they sat beside one another in the Senate and Brutus took the side of the Optimates, Antony would think of him like this: writhing helplessly beneath him on a couch, with most of Rome standing just below the open window at his back.

After he'd spent down Antony's throat, Brutus stared up at the ceiling, looking equal parts furious and stunned. His hand was still on Antony's head, but now absently stroking. It was punishment masquerading as a caress.

Antony rolled his cheek against his thigh and watched him.

“When are you going to come home?” asked Brutus quietly.

He pressed his sore lips against fevered skin. It wasn't an apology, quite. “We've been over this. You know my terms.”

“Your—” Brutus made a harsh, rude sound. His hand tightened fractionally in his hair. “Your _terms_ , I don't see what your terms have to do with, with—”

Antony thought of Cassius on the walkway. He said, “It has everything to do with us. Can't exactly warm your bed if I'm dead or exiled, now can I?”

Brutus very visibly bit his own cheek. “I wish you wouldn't talk about it like that. You always did this, you always made it sound like something – light and empty and  _crass_ .”

Was talking about it lightly worse than not talking about it at all? If Antony wanted to spend the entire rest of the day arguing, he might have said this. But he didn't. There were four more races still to be held and this argument was over twelve years old. Whatever people might say of him, he could manage his priorities.

Any lingering good feeling he might have had was rapidly dissipating. Perhaps this had been a mistake. Antony sighed and sat up.

Brutus's hand dropped away instantly, because the man never could hold on to anything.

He checked his toga over for any telltale stains before throwing it around his shoulders once more. Meanwhile, Brutus didn't move from the couch, his brow dark and moody. Antony knew from experience that it took many more orgasms to get him to lighten up, but there were only so many hours in the day.

He grabbed the wineskins he'd bought on the way over and paused beside Brutus's abandoned viewing seat. He glanced over his shoulder and gestured to the basket on the table. “Are these venison-wrapped dates, by any chance? Can I nick these?”

Brutus had melodramatically flung an elbow over his eyes. He waved vaguely with his free hand and let it fall back to his side like his fist was full of iron.


	6. Athens, during the Consulships of Lentulus and Metellus

ANTONY

| 

| 

BRUTUS  
  
---|---|---  
  
It doesn't end bitterly.

| 

| 

They do not part angry, or sad, or even particularly wistful.  
  
(Is this is a lie?)

| 

| 

(This is a lie.)  
  
It just ends. Everything does, sooner or later.

| 

| 

A final confrontation or fight, at least, would be something for him to remember, to hold as proof that they had ever been anything at all.  
  
But he has never before known something to end and not try to destroy him in the process.

| 

| 

Brutus feels wounded by the scars that aren't there.  
  
Antony is a different man, after. Not a better one, perhaps, but – steadier.

| 

| 

He wishes he could look back on any of it and say, definitively: that was the day he changed. But in truth his life resumes its former course so quickly, it is as if the association had been nothing more than a rock thrown into a deep and slow-moving river.  
  
...So maybe it hadn't been love.

| 

| 

...So maybe it hadn't been love.  
  
But then from Venus comes a memory:

| 

|   
  
“You say love is the greatest good,” says Brutus, looking tolerantly amused. His superior air is somewhat spoiled by his hair drying rumpled from their bath and sticking up in the back. Antony keeps wanting to reach over and ruffle it vigorously, but even he realizes they do not know one another well enough for such a gesture to be appropriate.

“I do.”

“But what if its pursuit brings degradation?”

The answer is easy, and so obvious Antony is surprised to have to give it. “Then it wasn't really love.”

| 

|   
  
So had it been love?

| 

|   
  
He had been through everything the gods could think to throw at him – and then was picked up by the right person at the right time, washed and polished and set to rights.

| 

| 

_What if nothing can truly reach me,_ he wonders, lying in bed late at night. Petrified by the possibility of his own heart's immovability.  
  
| 

| 

Janus, who deplores anyone caught on the threshold of an open door, sends a memory to push him either forward or back:  
  
| 

| 

When he first welcomes Antony into his rooms, there is a period of about six months where he doesn't write so much as ten words of poetry.

It is not a failure because he does not even try.

He could sit at his desk for an eternity, reaching, and still not summon the words to describe the simple miracle of Antony reclining easily against him at a party; feeling his laughter through his back; one of his arms crooked up so he can rest the pads of his fingers against the nape of Brutus's neck, like he needs that extra little bit of connection.

Why write poetry, when it feels like he is living it for the first time?  
  
| 

| 

So had it been love?  
  
He is like a volcanic stone, made new: burnished and possessing an edge that can cut.

| 

| 

He is stripped back to his essentials, the parts of him that are eternal and discrete.  
  
| 

|   
  
So had it been love?

| 

| 

So had it been love?  
  
| 

|   
  
Oh, what does it matter? Whatever it was, it is over now.


End file.
